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Random 
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BY 


WILLIAM   HAZELTINE. 


Oakland: 

The   Item    Publishing   Oo. 

1901. 


384460 


•  ••      • 


PREFACE 


In  compliance  with  the  wishes  of  his  rela- 
tives and  friends,  the  author  of  the  follow- 
ing" lines  has  consented  to  the  collection  and 
publication  of  such  of  his  productions  in 
verse  as  are  deemed  worthy  of  preservation. 
They  are  not  many  nor  of  a  sufficiently  high 
order  to  be  designated  as  poems,  yet  may 
not  be  altogether  without  some  value  as  keep- 
sakes.    Should  their  perusal  afford  the  read- 

>         *  „       >     *  *  '       »  v 

o      •  *a    •   «     »    J  *,    j    * 

er  a  tithe  of  the 'pleasure  tfiat  their  composi- 
tion gave  the'  writer,  then  will  have  been  ac- 
complished all  that  may  reasonably  be  ex- 
pected by  The  Author, 


•e^cZ&c^i^-^- 


CONTENTS. 

, 

A  Dream  of  Youth. 

Page. 
1. 

On  the  Death  of  a  Friend. 

3. 

The  Web  of  Life. 

4. 

At  the  River. 

5. 

Life. 

6. 

The  New  Year. 

7. 

4 'Follow  Thou  Me." 

7. 

The  Torn  Leaf. 

9. 

Groping  in  the  Dark. 

9. 

Rescued. 

10. 

A  Simile. 

10. 

At  Pacific  Grove. 

11.  - 

The  Secret. 

12. 

The  Voice  of  the  Morning. 

13. 

Grandmother. 

13. 

Le^e  Spiritus. 

14. 

This  Old  Back  Yard  of  Ours. 

15. 

The  Nativitv. 

17. 

A  Plea  for  Children. 

18. 

The  Parson's.Test. 

19. 

Barred,           "•'•.•'     , •/::/««  : 

19. 

Something  .W-;^3' ....'..!  '  '  "'.. 

20. 

To  Ode  Absent'.' •.'••:'./  ':  •,  :  /;.  .  ': 

21. 

The  Latest  Smg. 

21. 

The  Dawn  of  P-^ace. 

23. 

Raiudrops. 

23. 

In  Dream-land. 

24. 

Immortality. 

25. 

The  Butternut  Tree  by  the  Brook. 

26. 

That  "Dumb  Terror." 

27 

RANDOM    RHYMES 


A  DREAM  OF  YOUTH. 


I  slept.     I  dreamed.     Methought,  a  boy  again, 
I  roamed  o'er  hill  and  field  and  flowery  plain  ; 
'Mong  sunny  bowers ;  beside  the  rippling  rill 
That  danced  in  glee  adown  the  mossy  hill  ; 
Along  old  paths,  beside  familiar  rocks 
Where  oft,  in  youth,  I  watched  my  father's  flocks. 

Methought  I  saw  the  same  old  cot  that  stood 
Close  by  the  merry,  music-haunted  wood  , 
And  wandered  through  its  halls,  a  child  again, 
And  listened  to  the  old  familiar  strain 
My  mother  sang  while  swinging  swift  the  reel 
That  gathered  from  the  spindle  of  the  wheel 
Threads  blue  and  white.     And  then  I  stood  beside 
My  father  pleading  for  a  "pig-back"  ride 
Just  round  the  corner  by  the  towering  stack, 
When,  with  a  laugh,  he  placed  me  on  his  back 
And  cantered  off  with  all  his  manly  mien, 
While  mother,  from  the  window,  watched  the  scene. 

Again  methought  along  the  grassy  shore 
Of  babbling  brook  I  wandered,  as  of  yore, 
While  ever  and  anon  the  timid  trout, 
Alarmed  at  my  advances,  darted  out 
To  seek  some  other  quiet,  lone  retreat, 


Beyond  the  jarring  of  intruding  feet. 

The  same  old  mound,  within  the  meadow,  where 
A  century  past,  have  been  preserved  with  care 
The  rough-hewn  stones  that  mark  the  lonely  bed 
Of  maid  and  sire  met  my  advancing  tread. 

I  saw  the  elm  that  stood  above  the  spring, 
And  in  its  branches  hung  the  same  old  swing 
I  prized  so  much  in  youth — in  days  gone  by — 
And  with  a  happy,  wild,  exultant  cry, 
I  leaped  upon  the  board  to  ride  again 
Like  bird  upon  the  air.     My  giddy  brain 
Lost  all  its  nerve  ;  1  fell ;  and,  with  a  scream, 
Awoke  to  find  'twas  but  an  idle  dream. 

1859. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  FRIEND. 

Ah,  Death  !  why  stretch  thy  ruthless  hand 

And  pluck  from  out  our  social  band 

So  bright  a  bud,  just  set  to  bloom, 

And  lay  within  the  silent  tomb  ? 

Oh,  is  it  true  !  and  can  it  be 

That  one  so  full  of  life,  that  she, 

The  fondest  of  our  little  band, 

Has  gone — gone  to  the  spirit  land  ? 

That  voice  we  loved  so  oft  to  hear 
Ring  forth  in  accents  sweet  and  clear* 
No  more  will  lend  its  charms  to  ease 
A  suffering  world,  nor  yet  to  please 
The  willing  ear  of  such  as  throng 
To  hear  th^  sweeter  chords  of  song. 

Farewell,  loved  one  !  from  us  departed  ; 
So  loving,  generous  and  true-hearted  ; 
Yet  memory  lives  to  shed  a  tear 
For  thee  we  loved  and  prized  so  dear. 
Farewell  !     On  earth  we  meet  no  more  ; 
Yet  we  may  hope,  'yond  Jordan's  shore, 
To  meet  thee  there  and  hear  again 
Thy  voice  in  never-ending  strain, 
Made  perfect  now,  in  Christ  above, 
To  sing  His  everlasting  love. 


THE  WEB  OF  LIFE. 

A  weaver  sat  weaving  a  web  of  life. 

As  he  labored,  with  patient  care, 
I  minded  his  scanty  locks  were  rife 

With  many  a  silvery  hair. 

"What  do  you  here,  good  toiler,"  I  said, 

"You  seem  to  be  sorely  tried  ; 
What  signifies  all  this  confusion  of  thread  ?" 

To  which  the  weaver  replied  : 

"This  web  is  composed  of  a  warp  and  woof, 

And  I  weave  them  together,  so;" 
And  with  skillful  hand  the  weaver,  for  proof, 

Threw  his  shuttle-stick  to  and  fro. 

"These  threads,"  he  resumed,  "are  what  we  term 

The  warp,  or,  in  other  phrase, 
"The  'Natural  Man,'  and  we  trace  their  germ 

Far  back  to  primeval  days. 

"The  woof  is  a  texture  of  intricate  hue, 

And  threads  from  necessity  spun  ; 
Art,  Science,  Religion,  these  serve  to  endue 

It  with  strength,  and  combine  it  in  one." 

And  the  weaver  wove  his  Web  of  Life, 
And  his  face  was  furrowed  with  care  ; 

While  his  locks,  as  he  bent  in  the  toilsome  strife, 
Showed  many  a  silvery  hair. 


5. 


AT  THE  RIVER. 

Cold  hang  the  mists  over  Jordan's  dark  billow, 
Weeping  I  stand  on  the  shadowy  shore, 

Wet  with  the  dew-drops  that  fall  from  the  willow, 
Listening  the  dip  of  the  mystical  oar. 

Words  are  but  idle,  arranged  though  in  numbers; 

Earth  has  no  language  befitting,  at  best, 
The  expressions  of  peace  I  could  wish  to  the  slumbers 

Of  one  who  in  Jesus  is  taking  her  rest. 

Pew  are  the  years  since,  rejoicing,  we  started 
On  life's  hopeful  journey  together  below  ; 

And  now  she  is  gone  while  I  live,  broken-hearted, 
To  wander  alone  through  this  valley  of  woe. 

Like  tendrils  of  comfort  around  me  are  twining 
The  arms  of   our  darling  and  motherless  one  ; 

A  solace  in  sorrow  too  deep  for  repining ; 

A  star  that  shines  brighter  when  clouded  the  sun. 

A  little  more  sorrow,  a  little  more  sighing, 

A  little  more  labor,  a  little  more  life, 
And  I  too  must  know  what  it  is  to  be  dying, 

And  sadly  or  joyfully  give  up  the  strife. 

Though  cold  are  the  mists  that  encompass  the  billow, 
And  dark  be  the  shadows  that  rest  on  the  shore  ; 

Waiting  I  stand  'neath  the  dew-dropping  willow, 
And  list  the  return  of  the  mystical  oar. 

September  14,  1869. 


LIFE. 

Life  is  like  a  widening  river, 
Flowing  onward  to  the  sea, 
There  its  waters  to  deliver 
To  the  great  and  all-wise  giver — 

Deity. 

We  commence  its  varied  journey 

Through  the  little  laughing  rill, 
Growing  on  whose  banks  are  flowers, 
Bidding  us  these  hands  of  ours 

well  to  fill. 

Grasp  we  at  them  as,  in  passing, 

We  behold  them  very  near, 
Opening  to  the  sunbeams  early, 
Sparkling  now  with  dewdrops  pearly, 

bright  and  clear. 

Happy  we  if,   when  the  river 

Wider,  deeper,  darker  grows  ; 
And  the  distant  shores  no  longer      , 
Seem  to  check  it  as  it  stronger, 

sterner  flows  ; 

And  the  trees  upon  its  margin 

Bloom  no  more  for  you  and  me, 
We  shall  find  these  hands  of  ours 
Laden  with  its  choicest  flowers, 

happy  we. 


7. 


THE  NEW  YEAR. 

Since  yestereve  Time^  hour-glass  has  made 
Another  turn — its  sands  again  obeyed 
The  sure  decree  of  Him  whose  fiat  just 
Went  forth  with  man's  •  reaion  from  the  dust. 

Upon  the  threshold  of  a  new-born  year 
Again  we  stand,  and  list,  with  fancy's  ear, 
*  The  old  year's  requiem,  rehearsed  once  more 
By  moaniug  nigbt-winds  through  the  forest  hoar. 

Another  leaf  in  life's  event /ul  book 

Is  turned.     How  solemn  !     Yet  with  those  who  look 

Beyond  this  mortal,  a«  by  Jesus  taught, 

Is  joy  well  mingled  with  the  solemn  thought. 

The  virgin  pnge,  unspoiled  yet  and  brigbi, 
Is  now  be -ore  us.     On  it  let  us  write 
In  letters  golden  that  may  brighter  grow 
With  each  succeeding  }^ear  we  trace  below. 
1870. 


"FOLLOW  THOU  ME." 

When,  how  or  where  a  sinful  race 
Shall  find  their  just  reward, 

Has  naught  to  do  with  his  free  grace, 
Why  trouble  ye  my  Lord 

With  speculative  thoughts   .hat  serve 
No  useful  purpose  here 


8, 


To  bind  our  hearts  in  closer  love, 
Or  banish  e'en  a  fear. 

It  is  enough  for  me  to  know 
If  I  the  prize  receive 

Which  Jesus  purchased  to  bestow- 
On  such  as  should  believe, 

I  must  not  lag  at  every  hill 
With  idle  men  to  talk, 

But  seek  to  learn  my  Master's  will, 
And  in  his  footsteps  walk. 


9. 


THE  TORN  LEAF. 

She  tore  it — Alice  tore  it, 
And  now,  with  childish  grief, 

To  me  she  quickly  bore  it — 
The  sad,  disfigured  leaf. 

She  did  not  mean  to  bend  it 
So  hard,  and  that  was  why 

She  asked  if  I  could  mend  it : 
''Yes,  darling,  I  will  try." 

The  tattered  leaf  I  could  not 

So  easily  restore ; 
And  now,  though  torn,  I  would  not 

Have  it  as  'twas  before. 

Have  you  no  darling  Alice 

Whose  absence  here  you  mourn ; 

No  keepsakes  in  your  palace  ; 
No  leaves  that  have  been  torn  ? 


GROPING  IN  THE  DARK. 

Kind  reader,  did  you  ever  have 

Occasion  in  the  night 
To  feel  your  way  through  door  ajar, 

Unaided  by  the  light ; 
And  when  you  thought  the  coast  was  clear, 

Still  feeling  out  before, 
You  ran  your  face  square  on  the  edge 

Of  some  half -open  door  ? 


10. 


Well,  surh  is  life.     How  much  we  grope 

In  moral  darkness  here, 
Unaided  by  the  Gospel  light 

To  make  our  pathway  clear 
And  save  us  many  bruises  that 

Are  sure  to  leave  a  scar, 
From  running  blindly  'gainst  the  doors 

That  sin  has  left  ajar. 


RESCUED. 

A  sun-beam  met  a  breeze  one  summer  day, 

And  poised  a  shaft  to  strike  the  zephyr's  heart, 

When  quickly  sprang  a  shadow  in  the  way, 
And  caught  upon  its  shield  the  hurtling  dart. 


A  SIMILE. 

Fragments  of  good  that  strew  life's  stormy  sea 
Are  like  the  twigs  that  drift  on  ocean's  crest ; — 
Glad  messages  from  God  of  home  and  rest, 

Where  faith  is  swallowed  up  in  victory. 


11. 

AT  PACIFIC  GROVE. 

A  broad  deep  bay  before  my  vision  lies, 
O'er  which  the  tilting,  white-winged  shallop  flies  ; 
Its  waves  are  with  the  leaning  sunbeams  lit, ' 
And  wild  birds  o'er  its  dimpled  bosom  flit. 

E'er  empire's  star  here  shed  her  golden  light 
The  red  man  roamed  in  undisputed  right, 
And  blindly  offered,  when  the  day  was  done, 
His  adorations  to  the  setting  sun. 

A  restful  cadence  fills  the  brooding  air 
To  woo  the  weary  from  a  life  of  care; 
While  time  lies  slumbering  in  an  evermore 
Of  drowsy  ripples  lapsing  on  the  shore. 

With  aimless  tread  we  wander  here  and  there 
'Mong  jagged  and  unshapely  ledges,  where 
Strange  beings  of  the  sea  insensate  dwell, 
Repletely  nourished  by  the  reaching  swell. 

From  lodgments,  fashioned  by  the  hand  of  time- 
Pausing  to  ponder  on  the  scene  sublime, 
And  count  our  blessings  by  the  grains  of  sand 
That  lie,  wave-washed,  upon  the  ocean  strand — 

We  hear  the  Angelus,  with  tender  care, 
Ring  forth  a  summons  to  the  house  of  prayer, 
Where  waiting  father,  faithful  to  his  call, 
Invokes  a  benediction  over  ajl 


12. 


THE  SECRET. 

I  asked  a  man  of  wealth  to  tell  me  whence 
And  what  the  secret  of  his  worldly  gain; 

His  answer  was — ,k  I  simply  save  the  pence 
And  leave  the  pounds  to  rack  another's  brain.,, 

I  made  inquiry  of  a  man  of  lore 

To  know  the  wherefore  of  his  richer  mind ; 
"In  youth,"  he  said    "I  gathered  such  a  store 

Of  choicer  things  as  age  might  fail  to  find." 

I  importuned  the  Christian  teacher  how 

I  best  might  gain  that  bliss  beyond  the  grave; 

He,  smiling,  said:   "Twere  well  if  I  and  thou 
Were  mindful  of  the  blessings  that  we  have." 

And  thus  I  learned  that  he  who  would  be  rich 
Must  not  despise  an  honest  penny  earned; 

That  wisdom's  garb  is  wrought  with  many  a  stitch, 
And  joys  immortal  here  on  earth  are  learned. 


13. 

THE  VOICE  OF  THE  MORNING. 

Glad  voice  of  the  morning,  how  sweet  are  thy  numbers, 
Dispelling  the  dew-mingled  shadows  away  ; 

As  nature,  refreshed,  rises  up  from  her  slumbers, 
To  welcome,  with  gladness,  the  dawning  of  day. 

Oh  voice  of  the  morning,  triumphantly  breaking 
The  stillness  that  hangs  o'er  the  garden  of  gloom, 

Rolls  back  the  sealed  stone  whila  the  Savior*  awaking, 
Victorious  walks  through  the  door  of  the  tomb. 

Clear  voice  of  that  morning,  how  joyous  thy  numbers 
Will  fall  to  the  ears  of  the  gathered  above, 

The  plaudits  who  hear,  risen  up  from  their  slumbers, 
"  Well  done,  enter  into  the  joy  of  thy  love." 


GRANDMOTHER. 


How  queer  it  seems  to  think  that  she 
Was  once  a  little  Miss  like  me  ; 
And  went  to  scool  in  crispy  curls, 
And  laughed  and  played  with  other  girls. 

How  odd  to  know  that  she  could  run 
As  we  girls  can,  and  have  such  fun 
Repeating  oft,  in  this  our  day, 
The  same  old  games  she  used  to  play. 

So  strange  it  sounds  to  hear  her  tell 
When  she  was  but  a  "  gal,"  and  dwell, 
With  kindling  eye,  on  youthful  themes, 
When  life  was  full  of  sunny  dreams. 


14. 


The  dear  old  face  is  wrinkled  now, 
The  dews  of  eve  are  on  her  brow  ; 
She  cannot  do  as  once  she  could, 
But  we  can  love  her  just  as  good. 

And  if,  when  I  am  old  and  gray, 
And  gathering  shadows  dim  the  way, 
A  helping  hand  I  then  would  find, 
To  her  I  must  be  ever  kind. 


LEGE  SPIRITUS. 


He  who  would  lend  a  helping  hand 

But  lacks  wherewith  to  meet  the  need, 

Has  fully  answered  the  demand 
By  will,  if  not  by  deed. 

Whoever  would  his  fellow  harm, 
Except  the  angry  hand  is  stayed, 

Though  powerless  be  the  pinioned  arm, 
Still  grasps  the  hilted  blade. 

To  know  the  heart's  inmost  desire, 
Whatever  be  the  purpose  willed, 

Is  all  that  justice  will  require 
To  prove  the  wish  fulfilled. 


15. 


THIS  OLD  BACK  YARD  OF  OURS. 

Let  cultured  bards,  for  golden  gain, 
Employ  t^eir  higher  powers, 

The  while  I  sing,  in  silver  strain, 
This  old  back  yard  of  ours. 

It  is  not  large,  nor  yet  so  small 
But  one  finds. plenteous  way 

To  join,  within  its  trellised  wall, 
The  children  at  their  play. 

For  pastime  purposes,  a  pile 

Of  clean,  gray  ocean  sand 
Serves  well  in  which  to  mold  awhile 

Old  castles,  tall  and  grand. 

A  hammock,  with  well -anchored  stays, 
Swings  free  beneath  the  trees--- 

A  shady  rest  for  those  whose  days 
Crave  more  of  nature's  ease. 

A  summer-house  stands  at  one  end, 

In  which  we  often  stay 
To  watch  the  boys  make  up  and  send 

Their  mimic  trains  away. 

Ruth  skips  the  rope,  and  Ira  wheels 
His  baggage-wagon  round, 

While  baby  jerks  her  fists  and  heels 
To  see  the  football  bound. 

A  seesaw  plank  tilts  up  and  down--- 

A  ship  upon  the  sea, 
Riding  the  waves  to  Ceylon's  town 

To  buy  a>  load  of  tea. 


16 


And  now  a  soldier  prances  nigh 

At  a  cavorting  speed, 
Touching  his  cap  as  he  rides  by 

Upon  his  broomstick  steed. 

Around  the  yard  tall  callas  blow 
On  tapering  stems  of  green, 

While  near  the  gate  low  daisies  grow, 
With  chick-weed  in  between. 

And  when  the  shades  of  evening  fall 
And  darkness  veils  the  day, 

And' round  the  hearth  the  children  all 
Have  gathered  from  their  play, 

Let  others  boast  their  broad  parterres- 
Their  choicer,  rarer  flowers, 

I'll  sing,  'mid  duties  evening  cares, 
This  old  back  yard  of  ours. 


VL 

THE  NATIVITY. 

The  sun  had  passed  behind  the  Western  Sea, 
The  twilight  stars  shone  dimly  on  the  sight; 

The  ring-dove  nestled  in  her  favorite  tree, 
And  nature  slumbered  on  the  breast  of  night. 

Now  sought  the  flocks  a  kindly  shelter  where 
The  rugged  oak  his  leafy  branches  spread, 

While  shepherds  watched  their  folds  with  tender  care 
And  listened  for  the  wolf's  disturbing  tread. 

From  o'er  the  dim  horizon  of  the  east, 

Where  earth  and  sky  in  dreamy  distance  lay, 

The  rising  moon  beamed  softly  through  the  mist 
To  light  the  tardy  herdsman  on  his  way. 

'Twas  midnight  in  Judea,  and  lo!  appeared, 
In  shining  robes,  an  angel  from  on  high; 

His  face  was  radiant,  and  the  shepherds  feared 
And  trembled  lest  some  evil  hovered  nigh. 

"  Fear  not,"  the  angel  said,  "  to  you  this  morn — 
According  to  the  ancient  prophets' s  word — 

In  Bethlehem  of  Judea  a  child  is  born 

Of  David's  lineage,  which  is  Christ  the  Lord. 

V  And  this  shall  be  to  you  a  faithful  sign: 

When,  in  a  manger  lymg"'  ye  shall  see 
A  babe  in  swadling-bands  among  the  kine, 

Know  for  a  truth  your  promised  Lord  is  He." 

And  suddenly  through  space  was  seen  to  fly 

A  multitude  of  heavenly  angels  then, 
Singing,  "  Glory,  glory  to  our  God  most  high, 

And  peace  upon  the  earth,  good  will  toward  men." 


18. 

A  PLEA  FOR  CHILDREN. 

Speak  to  your  child  with  cheerful  voice, 

In  accents  sweet  and  calm; 
'Twill  make  their  little  hearts  rejoice, 

And  act  a  soothing  balm. 

A  balm  for  all  their  childish  woes, 

A  recompense  for  tears; 
A  shield  from  every  blast  that  blows, 

A  cordial  for  their  fears. 

'Twill  be  to  them  a  solace  sweet, 

As  time,  relentless,  flies; 
A  rest  to  ease  their  weary  feet ; 

A  pathway  to  the  skies. 

Utter  no  word  of  false  alarm 

Their  airy  steps  to  stay; 
Discourse  no  tale  of  future  harm 

To  spoil  their  happy  play. 

But  rather  fend  them  from  the  winds 
That  chill  their  tender  years; 

And  fill  their  young,  receptive  minds, 
With  hopes  instead  of  fears. 

Kiss  their  soft  cheeks  of  rosy  hue, 

Smooth  out  their  silken  hair: 
And  with  a  mother's  love  bear  you 
Their  every  trivial  care. 


19. 


THE  PARSON'S  TEXT. 

Our  little  girl,  of  summers  three, 
Had  been  instructed  in  the  way 

Of  saying  "thank  you,"  if  so  be 
She  might  remember  it  to  say. 

One  day  the  Parson,  passing  by, 
An  orange  gave  the  modest  tot, 

When  shyly  fame  the  lisped  reply  : 
"Oh,  bang  you,  thir  ;  I  moath  fordot." 

On  next  Lord's  day  the  preacher  read 
From  1st  Corinthians,  eleventh  verse 

And  thirteenth  chapter,  which,  he  said, 
Would  be  the  text  for  his  discourse. 


BARRED. 

Seat  me  in  no  closed  cathedral, 

Where  true  worshipers  must  wait  for  place; 
Lay  me  rather  at  its  portals 

With  the  weary,  face  to  face. 

Lay  me  where  sweet  carols  mingle 
With  the  preacher's  somnial  prayer  ; 

Lay  me^so  fond  echoes,  endless, 
Lift  me  from  a  life  of  care. 

Place  me  where  some  tear  of  gladness 

Glitters  in  God's  diadem  ; 
Where  that  tear  at  length  may  harden 

Into  one  eternal  gem. 


20, 


SOMETHING  WRONG. 

When  we  look  out  o'er  this  God-given  world 
To  see  its  inmates  bound  as  with  a  thong  ; 

And  hear  loud  words  of  mad  inventive  hurled 

From  man  to  man,  we  fear  there's  something  wrong. 

Considering  all  the  haunts  of  sin  and  shame 
Which  thrive  unnoticed  by  the  passing  throng, 

We  vsometimes  wonder  where  to  place  the  blame, 
Or  who  must  answer  for  that  something  wrong. 

When  men  stroll  through  our  busy  streets,  in  health, 
With  downcast  eyes  and  youthful  sinews  strong, 

Knocking  for  favors  at  the  doors  of  wealth, 
It  almost  seems  that  there  is  something  wrong. 

When  we  behold  the  gilded  walls  of  sin 

That  echo  to  some  bacchanalian  song, 
And  list  the  revelry  by  night  within, 

We  cannot  else  but  think  that  something's  wrong. 

When  greed  and  selfishness  join  hand  in  hand 
With  wealth  a^d  power  the  conflict  to  prolong, 

And  men  for  gain  will  break  the  eighth  command, 
I  tell  you  what  it  is,  there's  something  wrong. 


21. 

TO  ONE  ABSENT. 

In  slumber  oft  I  see  thy  smiling  face 
As  one  returned  to  her  accustomed  place; 
And  know  not  that  in  truth  I  do  but  dream, 
So  real  doth  thy  fancied  presence  seem. 

Yet  though  the  vision  may  to  me  appear 
So  like  to  that  sweet  time  when  thou  wert  here, 
I  would  not  wish  one  moment  to  constrain 
"Thy  unbound  spirit  into  bonds  again.'' 

Since  last  we  parted,  where  the  ebbing  tide 
Upon  its  bosom  bore  thee  from  my  side, 
Time  has  but  illy  served  my  grief  to  quell, 
Although  I  know  "He  doeth  all  things  well." 

Though  birds  still  carol,  flitting  to  and  fro, 
Where  lakelets  lie  and  water-lilies  blow, 
"Somehow  another  world  it  seems  to  be" 
Since  last  we  parted  by  that  mystic  sea. 
1890. 


THE  LATEST  SONG. 

Have  you  heard  the  latest  song, 

Uncle  Sam, 
Through  dispatches  from  Hongkong, 

by  telegram  ; 
How  our  Dewey  turned  his  tiller 
For  the  harbor  of  Manila, 
Sinking  all  of  Spain's  flotilla, 

Uncle  Sam  ? 


22. 

I  tell  you   twas  a  daring 

thing  at  night, 
Although  the  moon  was  staring 

down  and  bright, 
To  steer  his  devious  way 
Through  a  strange  and  foreign  bay, 
To  engage  the  Dons  next  day 

in  a  fight. 

But  Dewey's  arm  was  steady, 

brave  and  true, 
And  he  knew,  when  all  was  ready, 

what  to  do; 
So  he  sent  his  shells  amain 
Through  the  battle-ships  of  Spain, 
'  Just  in  memory  of  the  Maine 

and  her  crew. 

"  Yes,  I've  heard  the  latest  song," 

says  Uncle  Sam, 
u  Through  dispatches  from  Hongkong, 

by  cablegram, 
And  111  let  my  coat  tails  fly 
Till  the  last  proud  Don  shall  lie 
On  fair  Cuba's  soil  to  die; 

am  I  a  clam  ? 


23. 


THE  DAWN  OF  PEACE. 

Sweet  smells  the  smoke  of  calumet  to  him 
Who  sees  amid  its  circling  waves  some  dim 
Faint  promise  of  a  day  when  peace  shall  reign 
Throughout  the  tropic  isles  of  troubled  Spain. 

It  is  not  ours  the  battle  to  prolong, 
Beyond  the  righting  of  a  flagrant  wrong, 
Nor  yet  to  strike  a  super-added  blow 
In  hatred  of  a  fallen,  bleeding  foe. 

Should  Spain  accept  our  generous  terms  of  peace 
To  end  the  war  and  bid  the  conflict  cease  ; 
Then  shall  another  picket-line  be  gained, 
And  nature's  right  to  liberty  sustained. 


RAINDROPS. 

They  come ;  they  come  on  wings  of  love, 
An  angel  host,  in  heaven's  employ  ; 

Swift  heralds  from  the  courts  above, 
Bringing  "good  tidings  of  great  joy." 

They  come  ;  behold  the  countless  throng 
As,  earthward  bound,  they  hover  near 

On  mercy's  errand,  while  their  song 
Falls  cheering  on  the  shepherd's  ear. 

With  thankful  hearts  we  pause  to  hear 
The  raindrops  dripping  from  the  eaves  ; 

And  see,  or  think  we  see,  a  year 
Before  us  rich  in  garnered  sheaves. 


24. 


IN  DREAM-LAND. 

Although  'twas  but  an  idle  dream  I  dreamed, 
A  funnier  one,  may  be,  is  seldom  penned; 

This  way  was  something  how  the  vision  seemed, 
Especially  when  just  about  to  end. 

A  funnier  one,  may  be,  is  seldom  penned, 
So  full  of  inconsistences,  and  hence — 

Especially  when  just  about  to  end — 
So  plainly  destitute  of  common  sense. 

So  full  of  inconsistences,  and  hence, 
To  render  safe  some  filthy  lucre  won, 

So  plainly  destitute  of  common  sense 
I  started  for  a  batik  upon  the  run. 

To  render  safe  some  filthy  lucre  won, 

Lest  I  might  wake  and  fail  to  grasp  the  same, 

I  started  for  a  bank  upon  the  run 
To  carry  out  my  little  greedy  game. 

Lest  I  might  wake  and  fail  to  grasp  the  same, 
Although  'twas  but  an  idle  dream  I  dreamed, 

To  carry  out  my  little  greedy  game, 

This  way  was  something  how  the  vision  seemed. 


25. 

IMMORTALITY. 

["It  is,"  says  Dr.  Munger,  "related  of  an 
Arab  chief,  whose  laws  forbade  the  rearing 
of  his  female  offspring,  that  the  only  tears 
he  ever  shed  were  when  his  daughter  brush- 
ed the  dust  from  his  beard  as  he  buried  her 
in  a  living  grave."] 

Well  might  the  Arab,  whose  decree 
Refused  protection  to  his  child, 

Bedew  her  grave  with  tears  as  she 
Looked  up  on  him  and  smiled.   . 

But  where  are  shed  the  tears  of  God, 
As  down  to  everlasting  death 

He  backward  thrusts  the  offered  hands 
Outstretched  to  him  in  faith! 

If  death  ends  life,  what  is  this  world 
But  one  forever-yawning  grave, 

From  which  an  ever-loving  God 
His  offspring  cannot  save. 


26. 


THE  BUTTERNUT  TREE  BY  THE  BROOK. 

Does  it  stand  there  yet,  that  old  home  tree, 

Where  rested  the  robin  and  rook, 
As  it  stood  in  the  days  when  it  shaded  me, 

By  the  banks  of  the  rippling  brook  ? 

Does  it  stand  there  yet,  that  fruitful  tree, 

Where  the  squirrel  his  forage  took 
From  the  boughs  that  stretched,  in  the  sunlight  free, 

Far  out  o'er  th^  shadowy  brook  ? 

Does  it  stand  t^ere  yet,  as  in  autumn  time, 
When  the  birds  in  their  wisdom  forsook 

Its  branches  bare  for  a  milder  clime — 
That  verdureless  tree  by  the  brook? 

Long  time  has  it  braved  the  wintery  storm, 

And  oft  in  the  cold  blast  shook ; 
Befriend  it  still,  should  its  moldering  form 

Lie  prone  by  the  muffled  brook. 

Ah  !  well  hath  my  memory  held  the  day 

When  a  last  fond  lingering  look 
I  gave,  as  I  turned  from  my  home  away, 

To  that  butternut  tree  by  the  brook. 


1271_ 

THAT  "DUMB  TERROR." 

[Suggested  from  reading  Edwin  Markham's  ''  Man 
with  the  Hoe.  "1 

With  calloused  hands,  made  strong  by  toil, 
He  grapples  with  the  stubborn  soil  ; 
Nor  looks  to  note  each  added  name 
Inscribed  upon  the  scroll  of  fame. 

Unmindful  of  the  gulfs  'tween  him 
And  the  exalted  seraphim, 
A-field  he  goes  for  that  he  earns, 
And  at  the  "wheel  of  labor"  turns. 

With  more  to  gain  and  less  to  lose, 
No  better  calling  may  he  choose 
Than  that  where  nature,  his  true  friend, 
A  helping  hand  will  surely  lend. 

Though  scanty  be  his  humble  board, 
He  may,  perhaps,  have  treasure  stored 
Where  moth  nor  rust  can  leave  their  stains, 
Nor  thieves  break  through  and  steal  his  gains. 

The  wheel  that  turns  within  a  wheel, 
And  has  its  given  place  to  fill, 
Was  fashioned  by  the  self-same  mind 
That  in  one  whole  all  parts  combined. 

Not  all  on  winged  steeds  may  rise 
To  "peaks  of  song"  amid  the  skies  ; 
For  some  in  dusty  paths  must  find 
The  tasks  for  which  they  were  designed. 


28. 


And  as  for  that  "  dumb  terror,"  "  stunned,''' 
That  ''soul-quenched"  something  to  be  shunned ; 
We  know  not  if  he  has  in  art — 
Much  less  in  life— a  counterpart. 

Or  great  or  small,  or  high  or  low, 
From  dust  we  came,  to  dust  must  go, 
Where  flowers  of  love  alike  will  shed 
Their  fragrant  petals  o'er  the  dead. 


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